


Our Timid Sky

by Saucery



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Adorkable, Alternate Universe - High School, Apparently Unrequited Lust, Awkwardness, Best Friends, Boy Trouble, Cute, Fanboy, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Martial Arts, Misfits in Love, Nerd Angels, Odd Couple is Odd, Poor Little Rich Boy, Prince/Pauper, Ridiculous Adolescent Crushes, Slice of Life, Snippets, Sparring, Sweet, Teenagers, The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse of a world in which Dean and Castiel are teenagers, and Castiel is hopelessly, stupidly in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Timid Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [olympia_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olympia_m/gifts).



> The title is from [this poem](http://www.sptzr.net/Translations/funeral.htm) by Jean Genet.

* * *

 

Castiel's the king of stupid crushes. And he _knows_ it, not that he's had any stupid crushes before, or indeed any wise ones, but he figures his crush on Dean Winchester is so epic in its stupidity that it more than makes up for Castiel's complete lack of a romantic history.

So Castiel avoids Dean, mostly, except for when Dean calls him for something, which is always. So, yeah, the whole avoidance routine isn't working out too well. The other kids have even kind of gotten used to the weird pair of them, the school's overly butch resident delinquent and the nerdy class president that everybody hates, although Castiel mostly pretends not to hear their whispers and Dean mostly just shoves people into lockers if he hears them.

But Castiel doesn't mind that. He doesn't mind any of that. What he does mind is his stupid crush and the way his pulse stutters whenever Dean smirks that little smirk or wraps his chapped lips around a bottle of totally illegal Coors, but there's also nothing he can do about it, short of telling Dean to stop fucking waiting for him after school, but if he does that then Dean will be hurt or will possibly just hate him forever, and neither of those consequences are acceptable.

So Castiel finishes compiling the class lists for Sports Day or pinning up notices about safe sex or whatever his job for the day is, before heading out of the school and meeting up with Dean at the gate, because there's this bench there that Dean likes to sleep on as the afternoon sun warms his face. Not that Castiel's ever just stood there staring at it, of course. That would be creepy. Castiel's got _some_ concept of personal space.

Okay, maybe not. It's just that - Dean's the only one he can spar with, who throws it down with him and grins at him after punching him and then drags him out for pizza, and who doesn't think it's bizarre that Castiel is kind of obsessed with obscure martial arts and military history, or that Castiel's maybe some kind of psycho in the making, because apparently teenagers with personal collections of specialized weaponry and private dojos are red flags personified. (Or so the school counselor would say, if she knew about the personal collections. Or the dojo. Or the wall-to-wall map of Persia during Alexander the Great's war against Darius III.)

"Man, what is up with your name? You and your angel-name," says Dean, and Castiel drags his gaze away from its rather incriminating focal point (Dean's throat - specifically, his Adam's apple).

"My father is very religious," says Castiel, and it's almost true. It's more like his father _is_ a religion, expecting constant and flawless obedience from all his employees and stakeholders and, of course, his son - for whom he is more of an absent god, since, well, employees. And stakeholders. And massive international media conglomerates that make more money each day than all of Castiel's organs put together would be worth on the black market.

"Damn. Really? My Dad's religion is beer. And Mom."

Castiel chooses to ignore the tiny hitch that prefaced the word 'Mom'. He knows better than to push, by now. If Dean's drunk enough or desperate enough to talk about her, he will. "Do you have a religion?"

Dean snorts. And leans back on their practice mat, and there is - there is sweat pooling in his collarbone, the one bared by his _gi_.

Castiel's mouth goes summarily dry. He's never before thought that parts of his body (other than his penis) were actually capable of having minds of their own, but really, right now? His tongue seriously wants to be on that collarbone. Or possibly in it. And then - and then along it, and up and across that throat -

"What do you think?"

"Huh?" Focus. _Focus_.

Dean rolls his eyes. "My religion, dumbass. Do you think I have one?"

"You could start one," Castiel blurts, by which he means: _I would dearly love to kneel at your feet and worship you, with my lips and with my hands._

Thankfully, Dean doesn't seem to catch onto that. He laughs, and the sound sends a thrill through Castiel, much as he imagines God's voice must send a thrill through real angels. "Yeah? And what religion would that be? The religion of seventies rock music and bruised knuckles?"

"That sounds. It sounds charming."

Dean gapes at him. "You - " Then, he shakes his head. "Yeah, no. Just - of course you'd find it, uh, 'charming'. Only you would, Mr. Nerd Angel with the totally unexpected black belt, and the private dojo he regularly invites his friends to."

"Not - not anyone else. Only you."

"...right," says Dean, staring at him again. "Only - okay, that's disturbing. You do know that most people wanna get as far away from me as possible, right? Except for Sammy, but Sammy's, like, nine and hasn't grown a brain, yet."

"Sammy has excellent taste."

Dean makes a face. "Dude, don't say that. That's disturbing on even more levels than you're usually disturbing. Hey, would you let Sam in to spar with us, sometime? Maybe when he's old enough to, I dunno, jerk off or something?"

Castiel knows a moment of absolute, utter brain-death - blue-screen-of- _death_ brain-death - because a) he just heard Dean say 'jerk off', in _Dean's voice_ (although, really, who else's voice would it be?), and also, b) he cannot remotely understand why masturbation is a prerequisite for learning judo, karate and, occasionally, aikido.

"Oh, wow." Dean snickers. "I totally gave you a feedback loop. Sorry, man. I meant - "

"He can join us," Castiel breaks in, before his brain can even completely recover, because - Dean said it, which means Dean wants it, and anything Dean wants, Dean gets. From Castiel, anyway. If Castiel has the power to give it to him. "He's - your brother is welcome here. Anytime."

"Anytime." Dean repeats the word, softly, and there's that look in his eyes, the one that's full of impossible warmth and equally impossible promises, and that Castiel can only ever gawp at with an expression that probably looks like something that belongs on a besotted goldfish.

He tries - _tries_ \- to fix his face.

And mostly fails, because Dean's snickering again. "Cas, you - sometimes, it's like you're trying pull on some kind of mask over your face, like fucking Batman or something, but it's - you know it's a total fail, right? That's a total fail, right there."

"I am aware." Castiel's voice is both dry and creditably - all right, maybe not _even_ , but near enough to it that he (hopefully) doesn't sound like he has an erection. Which he does. "I." _I can't keep sparring with you, because otherwise I might end up soiling my gi._ "I believe I have homework to do, today."

"Time's up, huh? Is 'homework' your codeword for 'Daddy's coming home, and he won't be best pleased if he sees you, peasant'?"

" _No_ ," Castiel says, surging up and looming over Dean and fighting the urge to just grab Dean by his stupidly gorgeous hair and shake some sense into his stupidly gorgeous head.

"Okay, man, chill," says Dean, raising his hands and - and smiling.

Castiel stares at him, disarmed. He's - he's close enough to kiss. Dean's mouth is smiling. Why is it smiling? It's got this little curl right at the corner of it, like -

"I get that you actually have a legit reason for kic - for asking me to go, all right? I was just being an asshole. Sorry."

"No need to apologize," Castiel says, and gets up from the practice mat before he does something idiotic - like pinning Dean to it. And kissing him senseless.

"No, really, I - " Dean gets up, too, and looks at Castiel from under his lashes.

Castiel is, very likely, going to brain himself against the dojo wall. At least it'll save him from death by Winchester charm.

"I've just never really had, you know, someone who - who was cool with me and, like, accepted me and - fuck, this conversation's getting way too girly, so I'm gonna skip out on it, right _now_." Dean tilts another smile at him. Castiel dies another death. "That okay?"

"Yes," Castiel rasps, and then, realizing from Dean's raised eyebrow that it isn't enough, continues: "And, for the record, my 'Daddy' is never home."

Dean's gaping at him once more. "Say. Say that again."

"For the record - "

" _Daddy_. Say - just say it, I - "

"Why?"

"Because... Never mind why, it's just funny, in an absolutely bad-wrong kind of way, and - "

"What do you mean by 'bad-wrong'?"

"Oh, god. That - never mind." Dean runs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. Again. And I'm just going to go and change into my clothes now, okay? Thanks for lending me the _gi_ , by the way. It's lucky how you always have these spares lying around."

 _I had them custom-made for you_ , Castiel does not say, _because I know all your measurements after approximately two-and-a-half years of observing every nuance and movement of your body._ Saying that sort of thing would likely be inappropriate, so instead, he says: "No trouble," and then, because Dean had asked him to say it, "Daddy."

Dean trips on the practice mat on the way out of the dojo. How strange. Dean's not usually that uncoordinated -

"I'll see you at school," says Castiel. "Tomorrow."

"Yeah." Dean doesn't turn around to look at him. He sounds oddly strained; perhaps today's session was particularly taxing. "See... see you later. And thanks for the spar."

"No trouble," Castiel repeats, because he has no brain-power left to come up with new words when faced with the sight of Dean casually shrugging off his _gi_ as he heads for the changing room.

Shoulders. _Shoulders_ , and, god, that _back_ -

Castiel is going to have a cold shower as soon as Dean leaves. For at least half an hour. No, for the rest of the day. Possibly for the rest of the _week_ , and that -

There's the sound of clothes thumping to the floor in the changing room.

Castiel's mind conjures up visions of a golden, sweat-gilded torso.

A month. A cold shower for the rest of the _month_ , and maybe even that, in the face of Dean's constant, ongoing temptations, isn't going to be enough. 

 

* * *

**fin.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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